So I got ready with care. Not like a desperate woman, but like a wife who still wanted to please the man she had built a life with. I wore my floral dress, the one Thomas always said made me look “young around the eyes.” I pinned my gray hair into a soft, elegant twist and put on red lipstick, something I had not dared wear in years. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman who was composed, dignified, maybe even pretty. Not beautiful the way I had been at thirty. But there are ages when dignity matters more than beauty.
At the bakery near our building, I bought a box of dark chocolate truffles—his favorite. The young clerk tied it with a gold ribbon and wished me a lovely day. I left feeling almost foolish with excitement. At sixty, I was still thrilled by the idea of surprising my husband at work like a girl in the first years of marriage.
The building where Thomas worked stood cold and shining in the financial district, all glass and reflected sky, the kind of place that looked expensive and gave nothing back. I stepped into the lobby holding the chocolate box against my chest. Everything smelled like polished stone, recycled air, and money. I walked up to the security desk.